


a torch in search of a flame

by DFP



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: AU, M/M, Natori's love language is being annoying, Sexual Content, World Figure Skating Championships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DFP/pseuds/DFP
Summary: Give Shuuichi an inch and he'll take a mile.(Figure-skating AU)
Relationships: Matoba Seiji/Natori Shuuichi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	a torch in search of a flame

**Author's Note:**

> please forgive all glaring inaccuracies, im just here for a good time

**Skate America _,_** Salt Lake City, USA.  
_October._

It’s a dark, cold October morning that greets Shuuichi when he steps outside. He adjusts his backpack and fails to dim the grin he woke up with. His heart throws itself against his ribs, elated. He’s been waiting six months for this day.

The arena is only five kilometres away, so Shuuichi jogs there, gently warming up his body, feeling his legs stretch to life. It’s early, yet, just about seven, and the roads are quiet, shiny from the night’s rain. Bright orange leaves clog the gutters, the air cold against his bare face, sharp in his lungs.

The arena is a strange swoop of a building, launching itself up off the quiet morning roads like a whale breaking into the air. Shuuichi slips in through a side door that leads into the white-washed cement hallways, follows the now-familiar route to the men’s change rooms. There’s already gear stashed inside; jackets, bags, kicked-off running shoes. His heart beats faster.

Shuuichi changes and stretches, itching all the while to get out on the ice. He tries to tell himself that delayed gratification tastes all the sweeter, but he stretches for half as long as usual so he can strap on his skates and hurry to the rink.

The large doomed space echoes with the rasp of skates, a few figures stretch idly on the sidelines, murmuring quiet morning conversations. Shuuichi recognizes a blonde figure in a team Japan jacket standing by the boards and hurries over.

“Natsume!”

The boy turns at his name and smiles, “Natori! Good morning, it’s been awhile,”

Natsume submits with good humour to Shuuichi’s hug, though he frowns, embarrassed, as Shuuichi holds him at arm’s length and looks him over. “You’ve grown! How’s training going?”

“It’s good,” he squirms out of his grasp, “Sensei thinks we’ll be able to break top ten but…”

Natsume is making his senior debut at the Grand Prix, after just coming shy of the record high score at the Junior Worlds the year before. Shuuichi is very glad to see him, after months of texting in the off-season, and still a little awed of his abilities.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” Shuuichi says, “But don’t let the pressure get to you. Enjoy the ride, you’re only at the beginning of your career,”

Natsume smiles, “Are you trying to be parental?”

“I was going for wise but…”

Shuuichi’s attention is snatched away by the lone figure on the ice—first out for warm-ups, predictably—all in black, hair a long trailing ribbon following the sharp rhythms of his skates. Shuuichi sighs, draping himself over the boards. “Incredible. He grew out his hair even more,”

Beside him Natsume shifts. “If you start drooling—”

“You mean I’m not already?”

“Please, allow me to pretend you are a responsible adult, at least a little longer,” Natsume says, pressing a hand to his eyes.

Shuuichi grins at him, “Aw, I thought we broke that illusion in Italy last year,”

“This is why people say you should never meet your heroes,” Natsume grumbles.

The skater slams into the boards, making both men jump. He stares at Shuuichi, eyes dark and heated.

“Hey, Matoba,” Shuuichi says, startled. Seiji continues to stare.

“Natori.” he says, his voice low. Shuuichi crosses his arms and leans on the boards, can’t help the silly little grin on his face as he takes in Seiji up close. His cheeks are pink from the cool air, lips parted around his breath, wisps of hair stuck to his temples. He doesn’t miss the way Seiji’s gaze flicks down to his chest then back up.

“Off-season treat you well?” Shuuichi asks, pleasantly, “You look good,”

Seiji does look good, he always does. Shuuichi shamelessly lets his gaze wander his familiar frame—lean and whip-thin, his powerful thighs on full display in his leggings. He’s wearing his glasses, though the thick frames do little to soften his gaze. Black clothes, black gloves, black hair—he looks like an oversized bat.

A really, _really_ sexy bat.

“Um, good morning Matoba-san, I’m gonna go—uh, go be somewhere else,” Natsume says, already backing away, “See you later, Natori,”

Shuuichi waves idly in Natsume’s direction, then returns his full attention to Seiji. The heat of his gaze makes his skin prickle. “I’ve been well, by the way, thanks for asking,”

Seiji’s expression finally shifts into annoyance. Warmth blooms in Shuuichi’s breast.

“I see you’re trying to corrupt Natsume-kun already,” he says, dryly. His gaze breaks away as he adjusts his ponytail, smoothing hairs back off his face. Shuuichi spies the faint line of scar tissue tracing up his temple, disappearing into his hairline.

“What can I say? We’re speedy bosom-buddies,” Shuuichi replies, shrugging. Seiji’s eyes drop once again to his arms crossed over his chest. Shuuichi grins, “Something you’d like to tell me?”

Seiji’s glare is glacial. “Nothing you'd like to hear, I'm sure."

Shuuichi reaches out, across the boards, touches his hand to Seiji’s waist. Seiji freezes, staring down at Shuuichi’s arm. He rubs a thumb across the thick material of his sweater, feeling the hardness of Seiji’s body beneath. Softly, he says, “I missed you,”

Seiji opens his mouth, closes it. His hand comes up and covers Shuuichi’s, his glove soft and warm for a brief moment, and then he pulls away, glides backwards out of reach. His cheeks are pinker than before. “Show me if you've improved at all,"

**World Championships,** Milano, Italy.  
_Six months ago._

_“And fan-favourite Shuuichi Natori is up next,”_

_“There will be some technical difficulties, but Natori always gives a good show,”_

Shuuichi’s dream came true at Worlds. Maybe not the dream one would expect—he came in sixth, again—but one he’d held nearly as long.

It wasn’t hard to smile in the Kiss & Cry; practice had long since taught him to swallow down disappointment, frustration, hide them under a pleasant expression. And he had been disappointed, a little. He had been optimistic about his chances to move up in the rankings but—well.

He’d already been talking with his coaches about dropping out of next season and this performance cinched it for him. Unless someone choked the next four skaters were sure to push him down to sixth. Shuuichi glanced around the warm-up room to where a figure in navy blue had been wearing the carpet thin with his pacing. Choked, huh?

Everyone has their own pre-performance routines, respected as individual gospel. Seiji’s was to blast classical music and pace; he’d always been like that. Shuuichi almost smiled, thinking of a deathly serious twelve year old Seiji listening to Vivaldi so loudly it leaked out of his headphones.

An athlete’s pre-performance routine wasn’t something to interfere with. But Seiji, who usually looked like he was carved from marble, was chewing his bottom lip so hard he was surely bleeding. His face was bloodlessly pale. Shuuichi was standing in front of him before he’d really taken the time to think it through.

“Matoba,” he said. Seiji looked at him with sightless eyes. His long hair was braided back out of his face, his cheekbones jutted out sharply then fell away to the hard line of his jaw. A smear of concealer hid the worst of his undereye bags, mascara and eyeshadow made his dark eyes huge in his pale face.

Gently, he took Seiji’s hand and led him into one of the private bathrooms. Seiji followed easily, unresisting. The counter by the sink was cluttered with toiletry bags and cans of hairspray, the room smelled like rubber and aerosol. Shuuichi turned to Seiji, still holding his hand.

“Breathe,” he said, “Okay? Breathe with me,”

Seiji stared at him, silently mimicking his exaggerated breaths, sucking air through his thin lips. Shuuichi had not seen Seiji so panicked since they were juniors, when Seiji was stepping back on the ice for the first time after the accident. He didn’t think Seiji ever forgave him for being there that day. He wondered if he’d be forgiven this time.

“Matoba? You can hear me? Where’re we at?” Shuuichi asked, once the other skater’s breath had slowed to deep, full inhales. Wordlessly, Seiji took out one earbud and held it out to him. Shuuichi took it and stuck it into one ear, the tinny sound blasting to life full-force; Mars, the Bringer of War played at top volume. He had to tilt his head in even closer, tethered by the cord. Seiji stared at him, glassy-eyed and pale.

“You’re okay,” Shuuichi murmured, “I’ve got you,”

Seiji leaned in closer, tipped his head a little one way. Shuuichi tipped his head the other way. Seiji pressed their mouths together, gently, sweetly. Up close, Seiji smelled like winter air and baby powder. Shuuichi breathed deep.

They parted slowly, Seiji blinking rapidly, his eyes beginning to clear. Shuuichi’s heartbeat clogged his throat.

Then Seiji launched himself at Shuuichi, mouth-first. Shuuichi tasted blood, Seiji’s chewed lip splitting against his teeth, as Seiji licked inside him like he was a drowning man grasping a life ring. Someone—both of them?—moaned as Shuuichi gripped Seiji tightly and gave as good as he got. Horns shrieked in one ear, nearly loud enough to blot out the soft sound Seiji huffed against him, hands scrambling around his waist, nails digging in.

There was a sharp click as the bathroom door swung open. Shuuichi jumped, breaking the kiss. Seiji tilted his head ever so slightly, a spark in his eyes, a pretty flush to his cheeks.

“Matoba-san, it’s time,” Nanase’s voice called out, breaking their reverie completely. Seiji stepped abruptly back, yanking the earbud from Shuuichi’s ear. He was still looking at him with a curious expression, like he hadn't decided how to react.

“Break a leg,” Shuuichi said, hoarsely.

Shuuichi peeled out of his costume, happy to say goodbye to the sparkly confection but at the same time already nostalgic for it. Strange, the way you could love and hate something all at once. He was still walking on air after that kiss. He’d wanted to do that again ever since their first, ages ago. Figures that he just needed to catch Seiji at his most vulnerable.

All packed up, he was headed out for a celebratory drink with his coach and the other American skaters, when he spotted someone sitting at one of the tables in the ready room, bundled up in a club jacket and thick blue scarf. Shuuichi immediately swerved towards him.

“Hey, congrats,” He said, slipping into the chair next to him. The boy turned to him, lamplight eyes wide and smiled.

“Thanks, Natori,” he said. Natsume was a strange boy, quiet but expressive, who approached others with a straightforward kindness but was shy to receive the same. Shuuichi had taken a liking to him right away.

“You killed it. You must be debuting at the Grand Prix next year,” Shuuichi grinned, pulling the boy into a one-armed hug.

Natsume smiled, embarrassed, “I guess so. Hard to believe it, but I’ll work hard. What about you, Natori?”

“Ah, well actually…” Shuuichi drifted off, distracted by movement on Natsume’s phone screen, “Is this live?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I like to catch the post-podium interviews,” Natsume reached out and unmuted his phone. Shuuichi leaned in to watch Seiji get cornered by a reporter just off the podium.

He looked fantastic, as usual, not a hair out of place or bead of sweat on his brow, all traces of exertion on the ice erased. His expression was the blank, vaguely annoyed look that was his default—even after placing second at Worlds. Shuuichi’s heart squeezed fondly. The audio from the phone was a bit tinny, but the picture clear as an interviewer and their camera swooped in on Seiji.

“Congratulations on your silver medal! Is there anything you’d like to share?”

“Yes. Thank you. I wouldn’t be here without the support of my coach, Nanase. I look forward to our continued relationship,” Seiji said, in stiff English. Shuuichi smiled, _always so formal_. Seiji cleared his throat, “Excuse me for this next part in Japanese,”

He then stared straight down the barrel of the camera, his gaze dark and sharp without his glasses to cut it. “Natori. Catch me.”

The words hit Shuuichi like a blow to his solar plexus, his breath freezing in his lungs.

“Natori? Are you okay?” Natsume ventured. Shuuichi turned to him, grinning ear to ear.

“Never better.”

_@Natori_Sh:_ see you on the podium, babe✌️

_(“Natori, don’t call him babe!” “Why not? It’s funny!” “Ughnh,”)_

**Team Japan Press Conference  
**_August_.

“My new program is based on power and precision,” Seiji says, smiling that particular smile of his that hardly looked like a smile at all, “It is a technically challenging program that will demonstrate the strength of Japan,”

“We will be building on the momentum Matoba-san has accumulated over the previous seasons.” Nanase says, looming over Seiji’s shoulder hawkishly. “We are grateful for the continued support,”

Further down the table, Natsume looks flustered and almost ridiculously young with his hair combed back, dressed in a dark grey suit.

“My program is dedicated to everyone who helped me get to his point. I’m honoured and humbled to be making my senior debut,” he does a sort of half-bow, as if on instinct, “It’s a program full of excitement and high energy. I hope to represent Japan well on the world stage. Thank you.”

**Team America Press Conference**  
_August._

Some athletes hate the camera, resent the need to publicly air their training or artistic processes, but Shuuichi finds charming the cameras the easiest part of the job. There are stronger skaters on team USA, skaters who consistently medal at events. But Shuuichi has two things most of them don’t: charisma and a complete lack of shame. He knows his strengths.

“My program is about seduction and desperation. It tells the story of someone willing to do anything for their love,” Shuuichi says, with a smile and a wink. He can nearly hear his long-suffering coach struggle to control her expression. “This season I will put my heart and soul into taking on the toughest challenge I’ve ever faced, please continue to cheer me on!”

Seiji (10:13): Desperate?

Shuuichi (10:15): for you always

_Seiji is typing…_

_Seiji is typing…_

_Seiji is typing…_

Shuuichi (10:20): if you’re blushing you’re legally required to send me photo evidence

Seiji (10:21): I’m going to kill you and make it look like an accident.

**Skate America _,_** Salt Lake City, USA.  
_October_.

The skaters get two days of warm-ups before the actual event. Shuuichi wastes no time cornering Seiji inside the change rooms that first day, both of them still in their gear and sweat. Seiji backs up against the wall, holds his water bottle between them like a weapon.

“ _Seven_ quad jumps?” Shuuichi asks, unable to smother the shocked hitch in his voice. “That’s—that’s ridiculous, no one’s ever—”

Seiji smiles at him blandly, “Some of us have talent, Natori,”

“Talent? You’re a fucking demon,” Shuuichi retorts, standing as close to Seiji as he can without actually touching him. “Come to mine,”

“Not a chance,” Seiji snaps back.

“Okay, yours then?” Seiji’s answering glare sends shivers down Shuuichi’s spine. “So… that’s a no? We’re just gonna make out in the changerooms, then?”

Seiji’s fist clenches so hard around his water bottle Shuuichi swears he can hear it crack.

“You are the single most aggravating, obnoxious waste—”

Shuuichi knows an invitation when he hears it. He cuts off Seiji by leaning in to capture his mouth. Seiji throws his bottle aside so viciously Shuuichi’s pretty sure it shatters, his now-empty hands going around Shuuichi’s shoulders and yanking him in close. Shuuichi runs his hands down Seiji’s sides, grips tight at his waist.

Seiji kisses as fiercely as Shuuichi remembers, as he’s dreamed about every night since Worlds. He nips at his lip, tongue pressing into his mouth impatiently, hands scrabbling restlessly up and down his back. Shuuichi squeezes tight at his hips, presses in closer and Seiji readily hops up, wrapping his legs around Shuuichi’s waist. Shuuichi slides his grip down to Seiji’s thighs, just shy of his absolutely illegal ass, flattens him to the wall. Seiji makes a soft, pleased noise that shoots straight to Shuuichi’s dick.

“What’s my reward?” Shuuichi asks, panting the words against Seiji’s neck.

“Wh-what?” Seiji rasps, thighs gripping him even tighter. Shuuichi groans appreciatively and drags his tongue down Seiji’s throat, to the dip of his sweater’s collar where he bites, lightly.

“When I catch up to you, what’s my reward?”

Seiji’s nails dig into his shoulder blades. “Well, whatever you’d like. Within reason,” he adds, hastily. Shuuichi hides his grin against Seiji’s collarbone. “Stop smirking,” Alright, hides it poorly.

Shuuichi pulls back to look at Seiji, flushed and dark-eyed. Seiji’s tongue flicks out, tastes his bottom lip. “You—you’re…” Seiji traces along Shuuichi’s shoulders, down his biceps. “…bigger,” he finishes, faintly.

“Yep. Worked out a lot in the off-season,” Shuuichi says. Seiji looks like he’s about to ask _why_ , so he says, “Want to see?”

Seiji blinks at him, but when Shuuichi slips his hands back up to his waist he uncoils his legs from around his hips and stands, leaning against the wall. Shuuichi steps back and unzips his jacket, shrugs out of it then pulls off his long-sleeve. It’s cold in the changeroom but Seiji’s expression sets his blood to boil.

Seiji crowds into him, hands tracing up his stomach to his chest, following the lines of his muscles up to his shoulders. Solo skaters are generally lean with all their muscles in the thighs, but Shuuichi’s bulked up a lot. He had to buy new shirts, which he’d make a joke about except he’s extremely distracted by Seiji’s fingers, sweeping over his skin with greedy fascination.

“What the fuck,” Seiji hisses, quietly, as if to himself. Shuuichi flushes hot all over, his skin tingling from Seiji’s touch. Slowly, deliberately, Seiji leans in close, bends to touch his lips to the meat of Shuuichi’s right pec and then bites down, hard.

“Ah— _ow_ ,” Shuuichi hisses, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Seiji’s head. Seiji lathes at the abused skin, as a confusion of signals in Shuuichi’s body coalesce into _good, more_. Shuuichi wraps one hand around the base of Seiji’s ponytail and none too gently yanks him back up to lick greedily into his mouth, swallowing the soft sounds he makes, electric jolts racing through his body as Seiji slips his hands around to explore his naked back.

They break apart to gasp for air, Seiji’s face flushed, his lips swollen. Shuuichi says, only half-joking, “If Nanase-san comes in I’m not stopping,”

Seiji eyes him, “And if I ask you to stop?”

“Instantly,” Shuuichi eyes him back, “Are you?”

Seiji seems to think it over, his eyes measuring, his head cocked slightly. Shuuichi’s heart hammers painfully fast. “Stop.”

Shuuichi backs off, scooping his discarded shirt off the floor. “You wanna grab lunch?”

Seiji blinks at him, “Hm?”

“I found a place that makes really good bean curd, just a couple blocks away,” Shuuichi says, pulling on his shirt, “You wanna grab lunch with me?”

A smile tugs at one corner of Seiji’s mouth. “Sure,”

_“And Japanese National Champion, Seiji Matoba takes the gold at Skate America!”_

_“He gave a truly impressive performance; his program is stuffed top to tail with quad jumps and tricky technical moves. It really plays off his strengths in terms of precision, looks like it’ll be an exciting season!”  
  
_

Shuuichi is headed back to the showers, the podium ceremony over, when a reporter and camera operator politely cut him off. “Natori! How do you feel about your performance today?”

Shuuichi smiles, automatically, and pushes his bangs back out of his face. He’s still thinking about the cold, triumphant smile Seiji had when he finished his free skate. “I’m pretty happy with it. There’s still plenty of room for improvement, especially with the technical elements,” Shuuichi shrugs, “But I’m optimistic about this season,”

“Well you’ve already shown us a new level of your skating today, congratulations on placing fourth!”

“Thank you, I wouldn’t be here without my coach and the generous support of team America,” Shuuichi replies, earnestly.

“One last question and I’ll let you go,” She says, “Your sensuality on the ice is always so striking. How do you channel such energy?”

“Oh, it’s easy,” Shuuichi smiles, “I think of Matoba,”

The interviewer blinks several times in quick succession. “Seiji Matoba? Your competitor?”

“The one and only,” Shuuichi replies cheerfully, “He really ignites a fire inside me. Really turns on… my competitive spirit,”

Seiji (11:03): Don’t say such ridiculous things on tv.

Shuuichi (11:04): even if it’s true?

Seiji (11:10): You are an embarrassment.

Shuuichi (11:10): come to my room and I’ll say ridiculous things in private

**Internationaux de France** , Grenoble, France.  
_November._

The costume for Shuuichi’s free skate is one of his favourites; a blood-red shirt that does a nosedive down the newly defined lines of his pecs, the shoulders cut up into a tessellation of mesh triangles that drip down his chest. (He thinks that Seiji, in his black costume slashed to reveal red underneath, matches him perfectly.)

There’s a sweet spot in performing when Shuuichi is sort of outside the moment, his mind empty, his movements ruled by his body’s memory, where he performs his best. The thing is, no one really expects anything from Shuuichi, so he has to expect it from himself—though he doesn’t find himself particularly inspiring. He saw the kind of pressure Seiji was under when they were juniors, the weight of a family legacy, and yet he can’t help but feel that his was the better deal.

But as he heads into his free, Shuuichi is thinking of Seiji. _Whatever you’d like_. His blown-black eyes, his furious pink flush. The cold edge of his smile. _Catch me_. _Catch me._ And he’s thinking of him when he finishes, lungs screaming for air, body aching with exertion, and realizes he landed, flawlessly, every one of his jumps.

_“There were rumours last season that Natori would be retiring from the sport,”_

_“Yes, but with these scores it’s hard to believe it!”_

_“Very true, Natori’s beat his own personal record for the second time this year. I’m excited to see how far he can take it,”_

**NHK Trophy,** Karuizawa, Japan.  
_November._

“What are you doing here?” Seiji demands. Shuuichi smiles.

“Missed you too, baby,” he says, sweetly. Seiji’s brows tick down ever so slightly.

The Makomanai arena echoes with the sounds of team Japan’s practice, the slice of skates against ice, coaches calling out to their skaters, the clatter of people moving about off the rink. Shuuichi isn’t dressed for skating—he’s wearing slacks and a cashmere sweater, his hair combed back out of his face. Seiji is wearing an old team Japan jacket over his leggings, his hair knotted back into a sloppy bun. Smears of grey pull at his eyes, exhaustion and stress bruising the soft skin under his eyes.

“You’re not competing in the NHK,” Seiji says, flatly.

“Bang on. I’m just here to train,” Shuuichi says. Seiji’s brows snap down behind his glasses. In his skates, Seiji is a good three inches taller than Shuuichi, not that he minds having to tip his chin up to look him in the eye.

“The American team isn’t training here,” Seiji tells him.

“Yeah, it’s just me, hey—” Shuuichi leans in closer, Seiji tenses up, “Do you remember our first kiss?”

Seiji holds very still, blushing furiously. Shuuichi feels a smile pull at one corner of his mouth. Barely moving his lips to speak, Seiji grits out, “You know I do.”

Shuuichi doesn’t know what to do with the bright, hot feeling blooming between his ribs.

“You wanna recreate it?”

“No.” Seiji says, flatly, stepping back. “I have practice. Don’t distract me.”

Shuuichi knows this is his chance to explain why he’s in Japan, to tell Seiji about Worlds but—well, Seiji seems to mean it. And the last thing he wants to do is distract him.

“Okay, okay, I’m here if you need me,” Shuuichi says, easily. Seiji looks at him strangely. Shuuichi blows him a kiss, just to see his brows snap down into a frown, “Break a leg,”

**Junior Eastern Sectionals _,_** Karuizawa, Japan.  
_Seven years ago_.

They were standing outside, in a faint rain, waiting for Nanase to bring the car around. Shuuichi would never figure out exactly how Nanase was related to Seiji, but she doted like a loving aunt. Shuuichi’s father wasn’t keen on skating, wanted him to finish school and go to university and settle into some boring office job. Seiji’s family was the opposite, a legacy stretched back generation after generation of exceptional athletes. Even his dead ancestors were breathing down his neck for strong performances.

Shuuichi looked to Seiji beside him, hair hanging in a glossy curtain down to his chin, eyes dark behind his glasses, expression vague, attention focused inwards. Seiji had an effortless elegance, an icy perfection that held him at a remove from others. But Shuuichi had glimpsed it, was sure it was there; a flustered, red-faced boy beneath the stone mask.

Seiji made a small, annoyed sound and pulled off his rain-splattered glasses, shoving them into his coat pocket. Shuuichi was struck, as usual, by the hard lines of his face, the way the sharp line of his cheekbone mirrored the knife’s edge of his jaw. Struck by the line of furious white scar tissue, slicing jagged down his temple like a bolt of lightning.

Shuuichi doesn’t remember the accident but he remembers the aftermath: the entire novice team trooping down to the hospital to pay a visit; Seiji looking small and fragile and incandescently angry. And Shuuichi, just a boy, experienced a rush of emotion his small body didn’t know how to process and burst into tears right there and then.

Shuuichi reached out and touched the line of white scar tissue, trailing into Seiji’s hairline. The other boy held still, watching him carefully with dark eyes. There was the faintest raise to the scar, Shuuichi followed the line down to Seiji’s cheekbone, where it broke off at his eye socket.

“Does it hurt?” He asked. His voice came out hoarse.

“Not anymore,” Seiji replied, blandly. He continued to hold still for Shuuichi’s touch, so he allowed his fingers to trail down his cheek, cup his chin. For some reason, his breath was coming harder, faster.

Seiji was legally blind in his right eye and without his glasses or contacts he had a habit of tilting his head slightly, turning his left side towards the focus of his attention. It was slightly unnerving and Shuuichi found it irresistibly adorable.

For not the first time, Shuuichi was filled with the desire to kiss Seiji. For the first time he acted on it; leaned in, held Seiji still with the hand on his jaw, and pressed their mouths together.

Kissing Seiji, in the end, wasn’t difficult at all. It was like submitting to gravity, or breathing. Unconscious, inevitable. Seiji met him with clumsy enthusiasm, pressing their lips firmly together. Shuuichi smiled into it, tried to gently coax a rhythm into the kiss, cupping Seiji’s jaw with one hand.

Seiji tasted better than he looked. And Seiji looked really, really good.

“You kiss like a virgin,” Shuuichi said, breathlessly. Seiji flushed red, his face contorted into a furious scowl.

“ _What?_ ” He hissed. Shuuichi dragged him back in, though the other boy was stiff, resisting, and slammed their mouths together again. Seiji bit him, hard, and Shuuichi moaned, shoving his tongue into his mouth. Seiji’s hands wound in his blonde hair, gripping him tight, close. Their teeth clacked, pain bleeding into pleasure and back again.

They were both panting and spit-smeared when they broke apart. Shuuichi’s heart hammered so fast he was sure it was going to burst. Shuuichi had never before understood how you could desire someone so much you wanted to consume them. But now, he wanted to _devour_ Seiji. He wanted to crawl inside him and suck the marrow from his very bones.

Within a year’s time Shuuichi would make his senior debut for team America. Seiji wouldn’t speak to him for two more.

**NHK Trophy,** Karuizawa, Japan.  
_November._

Shuuichi wasn’t lying about his training, not exactly. With a solid three weeks between the Internationaux de France and the Grand Prix Final, Shuuichi splits his time between rehearsing his program and preparing for the following season.

He plays nice, too, and steers clear of Seiji while he prepares for the NHK. Even when he’s hanging out with Natsume he resists the urge to steer conversations to Seiji, doesn’t ask after his health or his routines or his family. He has rink time shortly after the Japanese team, so he catches snippets of his practices but resists the urge to call out to him, or catch him off the ice, pull him into a corner and stick his tongue down his throat. He’s a paragon of good will, really.

Shuuichi is in the stands for the team’s full rehearsal of their short programs, throws giddy thumbs-ups in Natsume’s direction as he steps off the ice, looking shyly pleased with himself. After weeks of practicing on the same rink the Japanese skaters are mostly resigned to Shuuichi’s presence, some of them even join him and Natsume out for lunch.

All thoughts of the rest of the skaters flee Shuuichi’s mind as Seiji steps out onto the ice. How many times has he watched Seiji skate? It doesn’t matter, it always feels the same.

Seiji’s short program costume is skin-tight, all in black. Cuts in his top, like licks of flame up his torso, reveal fine black mesh beneath. A shower of crystals falls from the wide neckline, cascade down his chest and arms. He looks very, very lickable.

The strength of Seiji’s skating comes from his precision, the way he absolutely nails even the trickiest elements, but does it all with such effortless elegance. The gentle rasp of his skate on the ice, the elegant lift of his arm as he heads into a jump, the whip of his long hair trailing behind. An expression of intense concentration on his face that slips into serenity as he relaxes into his step sequence, twirling complex designs across the rink.

Seiji finishes his routine, cheeks pink, chest heaving for air, licks of hair pasted to his sweaty temples. Shuuichi can feel his heartbeat in every inch of his body.

“Aren’t you taking this seriously?”

Shuuichi looks up at the voice, into the familiarly heart-wrenching, scowling face of Seiji. He’s still wearing the costume for his short program and up close the slashes in his skintight top make Shuuichi’s mouth water.

He’s still sitting in the stands, waiting to meet up with his training partner, fiddling around on his phone. The arena has emptied out; the space rings hollow and cold around them. Seiji looms over him, a vision in black straight from Shuuichi’s dreams.

“Why are you training _here_?” Seiji demands. His cheeks are still stung pink from the cold air, wisps of hair slipped loose of his ponytail float around his ears.

“You know, shifting focus,” Shuuichi says, vaguely, pocketing his phone. Seiji’s jaw flexes as he frowns down at him.

“Why are you—” Seiji makes a sharp, frustrated sound in the back of his throat, “Why are you ignoring me?”

“I thought you were telling me to back off,” Shuuichi says, stunned, his head spinning. Seiji looks down at him as if he is the dumbest person he’s ever met.

“Did I say _stop_?” He asks, slowly as if talking to a particularly dense child. Shuuichi’s whole body flares hot as a grin pulls at his lips.

“C’mere, then,” he says, putting his hands on Seiji’s waist and tugging him closer. Seiji climbs into his lap, with a haughty expression as if he’s sitting on a throne. Shuuichi clutches his hips, pulls them flush and cranes up to seal their mouths together. The hot press of Seiji’s body, the wet glide of his tongue, the urgent grip of his hands all light Shuuichi’s body up hot.

“Thank god, it was so hard leaving you alone,” Shuuichi says, earnestly, “The air you get on your jumps is incredible, I love watching you,”

“Stop complimenting my skating,” Seiji grumbles.

“Do you mean it?” Shuuichi asks and gets a glare in return. “Okay. Can I say that you’re beautiful? That you feel absolutely perfect in my lap like this and your ass—" Shuuichi grips two handfuls of dense muscle, “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, how fucking perfect and sexy it is,”

Seiji blushes red and hisses, “Oh my god,”

“I’m so desperate for you,” Shuuichi says, “If you wanted to fuck right here I wouldn’t even care, I want you so bad,”

“Shut _up_ ,”

“Okay, does that count as ‘stop’? Or is it just—" Shuuichi is cut off as Seiji kisses him, licking and biting like he wants to crawl inside him. Shuuichi can relate, grinding up into him, licking into his mouth ravenously.

He’s turned over his memories of kissing Seiji over so many times they’ve been polished jewel-bright in his mind, but they can’t hold a candle to the real thing. Seiji claws through Shuuichi’s hair, grinding down into him, nipping at his lip, overwhelming in his assault on Shuuichi’s senses. Eventually, they have to break apart to breathe and Shuuichi drags his mouth down Seiji’s throat. He kisses, softly, over the thundering pulse under Seiji’s jaw, licks a hot stripe up to his ear.

Shuuichi can feel Seiji just melt into him, his whole body relaxing against his. A greedy fire flares hot inside him, a hungry voice screams _mine!_ as Shuuichi resists, nobly, the temptation to bite down, bruise Seiji’s pearly skin, right where it’d be impossible to hide from the cameras.

“Oh! Excuse us!”

Dazedly, Shuuichi detaches from Seiji’s neck. Poised at the bottom of the stands, looking shocked and slightly amused, is coach Takuma.

“Hey coach,” Shuuichi says, casually, even as Seiji tenses right back up on his lap.

“I’ll give you two some time to sort yourselves out,” he says, shaking his head. Behind him, a young woman stares at them, slightly appalled. Shuuichi waves with one hand, affecting an apologetic smile, as the two hurry back out the rink doors.

Seiji untangles himself from Shuuichi’s lap, grinding his teeth, staring stonily into the middle-distance, mortified. His tight pants do absolutely nothing to conceal his hard-on. Shuuichi’s mouth waters. He forces himself to stand as well, putting Seiji’s crotch out of licking range.

“Hey, it’s not so bad, it’s not like Takuma’s surprised,” Shuuichi says, mildly. He’s more concerned about the skater with Takuma, he’ll have to apologize to her later.

Seiji turns to look at him, unimpressed, with his left eye.

“What? He coached us as juniors and I, at least, was very obvious,” Shuuichi says. Seiji rubs a hand across his mouth, sighing through his nose. Shuuichi puts an arm around Seiji, pulls him in close. “Come to mine, tonight,”

“The NHK is tomorrow,” Seiji says, blandly.

“All the more reason, I’ll help you relax, make you feel good,” Shuuichi presses in closer, ghosts his mouth across Seiji’s cheek.

Seiji touches a hand to the back of Shuuichi’s neck, his fingers cool. Then he presses firmly, his other arm snaking around Shuuichi’s waist. Shuuichi unhesitatingly returns his embrace, his heart thundering painfully. He tucks his burning face into Seiji’s shoulder, breathing in the cool smell of snow and the deep musk of his sweat.

His voice a gentle rasp, Seiji says into his ear; “You haven’t caught me yet,”

_“Seiji Matoba takes gold at the NHK, putting him in the top spot of the Grand Prix!”_

_“He’s built a program that really works for him, and it seems he’s polished his style as well,”_

_“Yes, Matoba has sometimes been slightly robotic in his execution but this season there seems to be real passion behind his performances,”_

**Grand Prix Final** , Vancouver, Canada.  
_December_.

“I thought a Canadian winter would be colder,” Natsume says, peering out across the harbor. Shuuichi squints at his phone as he adjusts the camera’s brightness, trying to make clear shapes cohere out of the darkness onscreen.

“Not on the west coast,” he replies, “Alright, smile! Matoba, you too!”

Natsume grins for the photo while beside him, nearly blending in with the nighttime water, Seiji glowers over his scarf, the flash lighting up his eyes like a cat’s.

“Oh, shit, didn’t mean to use flash, sorry,” Shuuichi says, as the two skaters blink rapidly to clear their vision, “Natsume, take one of me and Matoba,”

Neither look especially impressed with Shuuichi’s request, but Natsume walks over to take Shuuichi’s phone. Shuuichi immediately hurries to Seiji’s side, throwing an arm around him and pressing them flush.

The harbourfront is lit up by the glow of city lights, the ocean glittering restlessly below. It’s still cold, but warm enough for a faint, persistent rain that clings to every surface. They came down to walk around with the rest of team Japan, but it’s too late to do anything particularly interesting.

Shuuichi tilts his head against Seiji’s as Natsume lifts his phone. He can feel the tension in Seiji’s body, can practically hear him grinding his teeth. Shuuichi smiles as Natsume snaps a couple shots, squinting in the dark.

The pictures are blurry without the flash on, Seiji’s pale face clear and blank, Shuuichi smiling charmingly pressed up against him. Shuuichi grins stupidly at his phone as he fiddles with the settings. He can’t remember ever taking a picture with Seiji before.

“What are you doing?” Seiji asks, suspicious. Shuuichi smiles sweetly at him as he holds up his phone to reveal that his new lockscreen photo is the one they just took. Seiji gives him a flat, unimpressed look.

“Here, I’ll send it to you, then we can have matching backgrounds,” Shuuichi says, just because he knows it’ll annoy him.

“No.” Seiji says, predictably.

“Um, did either of you see where the rest of the team went?” Natsume asks, weakly.

Shuuichi pulls up his text app and navigates to his messages with Seiji, attaches the blurry photo to a series of heart emojis. Seiji scoffs over his shoulder. Shuuichi resists the urge to kiss him.

“My name in your phone—” Seiji says abruptly, cuts off with a frown. Shuuichi looks to him, “It’s just my first name,”

“Oh, yeah, it’s from when we were juniors,” Shuuichi says, slipping his phone back into his jacket. Seiji’s eyes stay trained on his pocket, as if he can still see the screen.

“You never call me Seiji,” he says. Shuuichi’s heart hammers in the base of his throat.

“I used to,” he says, dry. Seiji’s eyes snap up to his, then out to the dark ocean.

“Might as well start again,” he says, coolly.

“I’m—just going to go now, bye,” Natsume says, turning and striding off in the direction the rest of team Japan vanished in.

“Seiji,” Shuuichi says, immediately. Seiji blinks at him. “Seiji,”

“What?” Seiji snaps, looking slightly flustered. Shuuichi puts an arm around his waist, pulls him in close so their breath fogs together.

“You too,” he says, “Use my first name,”

“Alright, Shuuichi,” Seiji says. Shuuichi smiles.

“What’s my name in your phone?”

“Do Not Answer,” Seiji replies, immediately. Bright bubbles of happiness burst in Shuuichi’s blood.

“I wanna kiss you,” he says, touching his free hand to Seiji’s cheekbone, just between his glasses and scarf. Seiji looks at him blankly. “Is that okay?”

Seiji frowns, “Shut up. You just want me to say it,”

A firework launches between Shuuichi’s ribs. “Will you?”

Seiji hums and, smiling slightly, leans in to press his lips to Shuuichi’s.

_“And that stunned silence you hear is Seiji Matoba sucking all the oxygen out of the arena,”_

_“A gold medal performance if I’ve ever seen one. He landed every single one of his quads—absolutely blowing the competition out of the water,”_

**Four Continents Championships _,_** Seoul, South Korea.  
_February._

_“In second place is the reigning Grand Prix winner Seiji Matoba of Japan, taking the silver medal for his second consecutive year,”_

_“And Shuuichi Natori medals for his first time at the 4CC, earning bronze for Team USA,”_

Shuuichi breezes into Seiji’s hotel room. “Do you have anything nice to wear? Any non-athletic clothes?”

Seiji, currently wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants and an old team Japan jacket, scowls. “Why?”

“We’re going out,” Shuuichi announces, perching on the end of his bed.

“We are?” Seiji says, flatly. Shuuichi aims one of his most charming smiles at him.

“We both medaled, didn’t we? You said I could have anything I wanted, well, I want to take you out,”

Seiji stares at him.

“On a date,” Shuuichi clarifies. Seiji’s jaw works silently, grinding his teeth. “If that’s alright,”

“Fine,” Seiji says, at length, then stalks to the closet and produces his press conference suit, “Does this work?”

“Sure, you won’t need the blazer or tie, though,” he hops up onto his feet and steps into Seiji’s space, “Need help putting it on?”

“Excuse me?” Seiji replies. Shuuichi leans in and captures his mouth. Seiji bites him, hard, but then sucks on his lip, almost consolingly, and slips his tongue into his mouth. Shuuichi presses his shaking hands to the small of Seiji’s back, pulling him in close. Licks of heat begin to build in his gut as Seiji lets his suit drop to the floor to claw his hands up Shuuichi’s back.

“God, you were spectacular today,” Shuuichi breathes. Seiji frowns,

“I fucked up my quad toe and the—”

“Your recovery was really strong,” Shuuichi cuts him off. He drags his hands lower to palm his ass, “Did you bruise?”

“Spectacularly,”

Shuuichi pulls him in flush, “Can I see?”

Seiji huffs, unimpressed, “I thought we were going out,”

“Yeah, we are,” Shuuichi pulls back to look at Seiji, frowning behind his glasses, “Doesn’t mean we can’t mess around a bit first. Or are you so excited for our date?”

Seiji’s glare is glacial. Shuuichi only smiles wider.

“You think you’re much cuter than you actually are,”

“But you _do_ think I’m cute,” Shuuichi points out, gleefully. Seiji places one hand on the back of Shuuichi’s neck, digging in with his nails.

“I want to be clear; I am only kissing you to shut you up,”

Seiji licks directly inside his mouth, his hand on the back of Shuuichi’s neck holding him firmly in place. Shuuichi moans to show his appreciation and Seiji bites his bottom lip, nearly splitting it. Shuuichi winds his arms around him, presses their hips flush, kisses him back greedily.

Shuuichi slides his hands up underneath Seiji’s jacket, feels his cool skin, the flex of muscles in his back. He breaks the kiss to murmur, “Can I?”

Seiji mutely unzips his jacket and Shuuichi slips it from his shoulders, plays with the hem of his shirt questioningly. Seiji peels it off, expression wryly amused as Shuuichi stares at the pale skin revealed beneath, skating his hands up Seiji’s stomach, down his arms. A faint trail of dark hair licks up between the harsh v of his hipbones and Shuuichi’s mouth waters to taste.

“God,” Shuuichi whispers, reverent. He’s seen Seiji shirtless before, obviously, but getting to touch, to taste—Shuuichi bullies Seiji back against the desk and bends to suck at the taut skin of his shoulder. “Can I—here?”

Seiji makes a small sound, almost a sigh, and grips Shuuichi by the hair, hauls his mouth lower, below the jut of his collarbone. “Here.” He releases Shuuichi’s hair and draws a line across his own skin, “My costume ends here,”

A rush of blood flees south of Shuuichi’s brain. “You thought about this?” He rasps. Whatever Seiji is about to snap back is lost to a strangled noise as Shuuichi bites down hard, sucking greedily exactly where Seiji showed him to. His hands fumble with the waistband of Seiji’s sweatpants, shoving them easily down and then Shuuichi freezes.

Seiji—isn’t wearing anything underneath. Shuuichi stares, his brain buzzing with white noise. Seiji touches a hand to Shuuichi’s chin, tilts his head up so their eyes meet. His smile is cold and sharp and _beautiful_.

“My shirt, if you would,” he says, nodding towards the discarded suit. Shuuichi stares at him for a long moment, then painfully peels away to retrieve the suit. He untangles the jacket and tosses that back into the closet, hanging the trousers off the back of the desk chair. Seiji takes the button-up from him and shrugs it on. Shuuichi crowds back into his space, fingers clumsily fiddling with the buttons, and kisses him helplessly.

The kiss is sloppy, Shuuichi licking into Seiji greedily as their fingers overlap, fumbling with the small buttons. By the time Seiji’s shirt is fully done up they’re both flushed and breathing hard, lips shiny and swollen.

Seiji steps into the trousers and carefully fastens them over his naked erection. Shuuichi watches, so turned-on he’s stunned stupid. Seiji smirks at him, eyes glittering.

“You’re drooling,” he says, dryly. Shuuichi touches a hand to his own mouth, genuinely feeling for drool.

“Is it too late to change plans?” he asks.

“Yes,” Seiji replies, flatly. He undoes his hair and rakes a brush through the strands before tying it back in a virtually identical ponytail. “Where are we going?”

It takes the entire walk to the restaurant for Shuuichi’s painful erection to go down. It’s cold enough that they have to wear jackets, but a warm breeze blows a promise of spring down the city streets, tangles Seiji’s long hair.

Dinner passes quickly as they talk the results of the 4CC, discuss Natsume’s potential and talent, and Seiji, in an uncharacteristic show of good humour, even allows Shuuichi a full five minutes of fondly reminiscing on their time together as juniors. And when they step outside, back into the brisk night air, Seiji doesn’t even frown as Shuuichi pulls him in close.

“Am I allowed to ask for more?” He asks, grinning as their combined breath fogs Seiji’s glasses.

“Depends on what it is, I suppose,” Seiji returns, dryly. Shuuichi kisses him, slow and chaste, luxuriating in the feel of his soft lips, the press of his teeth, the heat of his breath.

“I want you, however much you’re willing to give,” Shuuichi says, hopelessly honest.

“Oh, is that all?” Seiji nips, once, at Shuuichi’s bottom lip, “I’m sure that can be arranged,”

The instant they’re safely ensconced back in Seiji’s hotel room Shuuichi all but throws himself at Seiji. Kissing sloppily, hungrily, they struggle out of their jackets, hands clawing impatiently at one another. Seiji all but tears Shuuichi’s shirt off and then pinches his nipples so hard Shuuichi yelps, so turned on he can barely summon the coordination to slip off Seiji’s shirt. He runs his hands down Seiji’s back, surprised to encounter a rough texture criss-crossing his shoulder blades.

“Strain something?” He asks, running a finger along the outside edge of the KT tape.

“No,” Seiji says, distracted as he unzips Shuuichi’s pants. Shuuichi dutifully releases Seiji to step out of his pants before scrabbling at the fly of Seiji’s trousers, thinking mostly of how he _knows_ Seiji isn’t wearing underwear.

“You always did carry stress in your shoulders,” he says, smiling. Seiji’s expression shifts, unfathomable, eventually settling somewhere close to resignation.

“Yes,” he sighs.

Shuuichi all but tosses Seiji onto the bed, presses their naked bodies flush and fails to swallow the needy moan that escapes him at the feel of Seiji underneath him, hard and warm and arcing greedily into him. Their hands grip, urgent, hips rolling, his skin lit up with dizzying signals, pleasure a hot winding in his navel.

Somehow, Shuuichi manages to fumble out the lube and slick his fingers. “Breathe,” he says, soothingly, as he works the first finger inside Seiji who squirms impatiently, bucking into his touch.

“How is it?” Shuuichi breathes, crooking his finger, “Do you like it, having me inside you?”

Seiji makes a thin noise, pressing his head back, eyes screwing shut. His hair spills out across the pillow, a frazzled black halo.

“You like it, don’t you? That I can tell when you like something, but I ask anyway?” Shuuichi smirks, “You like being a little embarrassed,”

Seiji turns his face further into the pillow, gritting his teeth and grinding down into his hand.

“That’s okay, baby, I got you,” Shuuichi coos. Seiji makes a small, choked sound, his blush spilling down his throat. The room could catch fire and it wouldn’t be enough to tear Shuuichi’s gaze away.

Once Seiji is well stretched, hissing and spitting like an angry cat for Shuuichi to _get on with it_ —and, oh, does that do funny things to his heart and dick—he crawls on top of Shuuichi and sits down on his cock with stubborn determination. They both groan, loudly, Shuuichi suddenly gasping for air as Seiji’s tight, wet heat envelopes him, stirs the hot coals of pleasure in his gut.

“I’ve thought of this, wanted this, god, since we were juniors,” Shuuichi wheezes, “You look better than I ever dreamed,”

“I want you,” Seiji gasps, beginning to move, thighs flexing as he lifts up and then grinds back down. A bolt of heat shoots through Shuuichi, pressure winding inside him to a nearly painful degree, from the words, from the feeling, from Seiji.

“A bit obvious at this point, yeah?” Shuuichi pants, canting his hips up to meet him.

“No I mean—hng, I-I want all of you,” Seiji says, panting.

“Oh, _Seiji_ ,” Shuuichi moans, suddenly very conscious of the distance between them. He sits up, jostling Seiji in his lap, and yanks him in by a fistful of black hair to kiss him. Seiji makes a soft sound into his mouth, arms scrambling around him, hips pressing down urgently to stay on his cock.

“Shuuichi—!” Seiji grunts, as Shuuichi rolls them so Seiji’s on his back, hair a tangled snarl on the pillow.

“Okay?” Shuuichi asks, breathlessly. Seiji stares up at him with glazed eyes, flushed down to his chest.

“Yes,” he hisses, canting his hips up and lifting his legs so Shuuichi bottoms out. They both groan, Shuuichi grips Seiji’s thighs and hooks his ankles over his shoulders, effectively folding Seiji in half. His head spins at the sight and the feel of him, hot and welcoming around his cock.

“Seiji you’re—I’m—” Shuuichi wheezes as he begins to thrust into him, the greedy pull of Seiji’s body stoking a fire in his gut. “Fuck I’m not gonna last,”

“Shut up, you’re not allowed to come until I have,” Seiji hisses, thighs flexing as he fucks his hips up to meet his thrusts. Shuuichi makes a truly embarrassing, desperate noise.

“That’s—oh, that doesn’t help,” Shuuichi whines. He adjusts his thrusts, shifting Seiji’s legs higher, trying to change the angle until finally he hits the spot that makes Seiji arc off the bed, clenching vice-like around him. He grits out, warningly, “ _Seiji—_ "

Seiji makes a breathy, earnest sound, a sound that makes Shuuichi’s head spin, and fumbles his hand between them to grip his own cock.

“You feel so good—you look so good, oh god, Seiji,” Shuuichi pants, pleasure building to an irresistible pressure inside him.

Seiji throws his head back on the pillow, a shock-slack look on his face, body trembling around him. “Shuuichi—”

“Oh, please, please—" Shuuichi whines.

Seiji gasps, once more, “ _Shuuichi_ ,” and then he’s shuddering and coming apart on his cock and Shuuichi is lost to the heat of his own orgasm.

Shuuichi grabs a washcloth from the bathroom to wipe up with while Seiji sprawls out on the bed like a contented cat. It’s a sight too powerful to resist, so Shuuichi flops down with him and kisses his shoulder, chases the sharp line of his collarbone, up his throat. Seiji grunts, not really a complaint, as Shuuichi traces the knobs of his spine. He did bruise, a mottle purple-green patch on his hip that Shuuichi has to resist squeezing.

He knows it’s now or never; he’s put it off for too long. Shuuichi takes a deep breath and says,

“I’m not going to Worlds,”

Seiji stiffens immediately. “What?”

“I’ve mentioned before—about shifting focus?” Shuuichi says, nervous, “Well I’m cutting my season short,”

Seiji jerks away violently and gets to his feet. “I see.” He says, in the iciest tone imaginable, turning away to snatch up his shirt.

“W-wait, it’s just—"

“I don’t want to hear it,” Seiji snaps, stepping into his trousers.

“Seiji it’s not—" Shuuichi scrambles to his feet, hands held up placatingly.

Seiji shrugs into his shirt and makes for the door, “You’re leaving. I get it.”

“You don’t! Please, it’s just—I’ve been skating against you for years and it’s just not—"

“Not doing it for you anymore?” Seiji spits, turning the full force of his glare on him, “But you wanted to wait until you’d made a complete fool of me first, before telling me?”

The force of Seiji’s vitriol is enough to rock Shuuichi back, stun him into silence. Seiji huffs a bitter, angry laugh and opens the door.

“Typical. I should’ve known better,” Seiji snaps over his shoulder, then closes the door behind him. Shuuichi stares, shocked, into the abyss for a beat then mutters,

“Shit,” and scrambles to find his scattered clothes, haphazardly pulling them on, “Shuuichi you absolute moron!” He hisses under his breath, “You fucked it up! Just like you always do! Fuck!”

Once Shuuichi is out in the hall, the door clicking shut behind him, he realizes he doesn’t have the key to get back into Seiji’s room. The anonymous hotel hall unfolds in either direction, with no clue to which way Seiji took.

A blast of air-conditioning hits him; he forgot his jacket in the room. At least his phone is still in his pocket, which he fumbles out now as he begins pacing anxiously down the hall.

Shuuichi (11:22): Where did you go?

Shuuichi (11:40): Are you okay? We don’t have to talk I just wanna know you’re safe

Shuuichi (12:06): Please can you just give me a sign you’re okay?

Shuuichi (12:47): I was trying to say that I’ve been skating against you for years but what I really want is to skate with you. I want to skate for you.

Shuuichi (1:03): I’m sorry I went about that the wrong way. I’ve wanted to tell you but it never seemed right, it always felt like a weird time. And this isn’t ideal either, I know, but I’m going to switch to pairs ice dance. I’ve been meeting with Rina; she skates for Japan you must know her. I’m going to skate for Japan again!

Shuuichi (7:55): I’m sorry

Shuuichi (8:02): Can we talk?

Shuuichi (8:30): I’ve been head over heels for you since we were kids. I miss you whenever you’re not around. You make me want to be better, you make me want to try harder. I want to be that for you too. I love you, okay?

Shuuichi (8:41): Please text me back

Hitoyoshi, Japan.  
_February._

Shuuichi had first met Seiji in the Hitoyoshi arena. They were both kids, Seiji couldn’t have been older than nine, but he was already an athlete, haughtily offering advice to Shuuichi, his senior only in years.

Shuuichi hadn’t known how to handle him then, but he knows him now. He knows that Seiji’s rare kindnesses are hard to untangle from his cruelties, he knows that skating could be enough for him—that Shuuichi may come second to the sport the rest of his life.

Shuuichi knows himself, however, and he knows that silver is better than never placing at all.

It’s with buzzing nerves and a heavy dread that Shuuichi returns to his hometown. They’ve put out the official press release, so depending on how committed Seiji is to ignoring his existence this conversation might be easier, now. Though, since Seiji’s blocked his number, he’s not very optimistic.

He shoulders his way inside the rink, the air undiscernible from the winter chill outside. A few skaters are stretching off the ice or chatting with their coaches and choreographers. There’s a lone figure on the ice, the rasp of his skates a consistent _hssh hssh_ below the other noise, the fluttering line of his black hair like a flag.

Shuuichi walks right up to the boards and stares as the skater makes his way back up the ice. Seiji’s wearing his jacket, tellingly large around the shoulders. From his furious pink flush, Seiji knows he’s been caught. Hope blooms, bright, from the pit of dread in Shuuichi’s stomach.

“Seiji,” he says, once he’s within hearing, “Can we talk?”

Seiji looks at him, stone-faced and impassive. His hair is pulled back into a French braid, glossy under the arena lights, his glasses enlarging his eyes into dark moons in his pale face. Grey bags pull at his eyes, his lips chapped and flaking. His gloved hands ball into fists. Shuuichi tastes the iron tang of blood in his mouth. Seiji is so beautiful.

“Alright,” he says, voice stripped dry.

They sit in the stands, far from the ice and the curious ears of the other skaters. Seiji faces him, expression unreadable, a cold tilt to his mouth. Shuuichi runs a hand through his hair, nervous beyond his own expectations. There’s nothing for it—he has to just dive in.

“I wanted—I’m sorry. I-I’m not very good at being sincere but I never wanted to hurt you,” Shuuichi says, stuttering past the lump in his throat, “I meant what I said, about wanting you,”

“Which time?” Seiji asks, dryly. He looks at Shuuichi with his usual blank expression, but there’s something swimming in his eyes, something that makes Shuuichi’s blood rush hot.

“Every time,” Shuuichi replies, in an earnest rush, “You—you’re passionate, and driven, and you’re mean to me and I—I like all of that,”

“I thought you were mocking me,” Seiji says, stiffly.

“Well, I was, a little. But I do—I do really like you,” Shuuichi says, flushing hotly, “That was never the joke,”

Seiji’s expression shifts, his eyes softening minutely. Shuuichi finds he can breathe a little easier.

“I was trying to tell you—well, it might seem strange, but I’m switching to pairs ice dance,” Shuuichi says all in a rush, “Rina Nakahara, do you know her? I’ve been meeting with her since last season. Takuma introduced us,”

“It does seem strange,” Seiji says, “You’re performing well. It doesn’t make sense to switch.”

“I did my best skating this season because it was for you,” Shuuichi confesses, “I can’t skate just for myself—I need people depending on me. That’s why I’m switching to pairs,”

“Ice dance,” Seiji says, with no inflection.

“Yeah I mean—there’s no pretending I’m anywhere near your level when it comes to jumps,” Shuuichi says, “I was in Japan in November to train with Rina,”

“You’ve been splitting your time between competing and training for ice dance,” Seiji says, flatly.

“Yes…” Shuuichi answers, slowly. Seiji looks at him, expression unreadable.

“And you still medaled at the 4CC,”

“What can I say? I had a great motivator,” Shuuichi can’t help but quirk his brow meaningfully.

Seiji scoffs. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Yeah,”

“And stupid,”

“Yeah,”

“And completely shameless,”

“Yeah,”

Seiji’s expression shifts perilously close to rolling his eyes. “Well. As long as we’re on the same page,”

Shuuichi feels his lips twitch up into a smile. “Since I’m going to be back in Japan I—well, I was wondering if you—that is if—"

“Yes.” Seiji cuts in, something close to amusement softening his gaze.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask,” he complains. Seiji does roll his eyes, but there’s a smile tucked into one corner of his mouth.

“By all means, continue,”

“Marry me?”

Seiji stares, dark eyes wide, until Shuuichi’s grin becomes too hard to hide and then he blushes, looks away.

“Dream on,” he mutters. Shuuichi can’t hold himself back anymore, he snatches up one of Seiji’s gloved hands and presses it to his smiling mouth, bites down gently on his knuckles. Heat sparks, like flint on steel, in Seiji’s dark gaze.

“Um, maybe don’t check my messages after you unblock me,” Shuuichi says, haltingly, as he lowers their intertwined hands. Seiji fixes him with a look.

“I didn’t block you,”

“Y-you didn’t?” Shuuichi squeaks. Seiji looks away, gaze stony, cheeks dusted pink.

“I overreacted. I—I apologize,” he says, stiffly. He stares into the distance for a long moment. “I skate for myself, I always have. But I… I want you to look at me. No one else matters,”

“I’m looking. I’ve always seen you,” Shuuichi says, breathless around the lump in his throat. Seiji darts in and captures his mouth in a searing kiss. Shuuichi cups the back of his neck, holds him close, savours the urgent press of his lips. When they part they’re both flushed, the heat in Seiji’s expression makes Shuuichi’s whole body light up.

“If you’re coming back home then...” Seiji tips his head, eyes sharp, “Then move in with me,”

Shuuichi gapes, stunned. “Isn’t—wouldn’t that be kind of irresponsible? Stupid?”

“Does that bother you?” Seiji smirks, eyes dancing.

Shuuichi huffs a laugh, his heart pounding relentlessly in his ears. “No, not at all,”

**Worlds Championships,** Saitama, Japan.  
_March._

 _“Matoba finished_ fourth _in the short program, falling short of his seasons’s best,”_

_“Yes, fourth cannot be what he was expecting heading into this competition,”_

_“We’ll have to see if he can pull enough points out of his free to get onto the podium,”_

Seiji slept deceptively easy after the short program. Shuuichi was delighted to learn that he usually slept flat on his back, hands on his stomach, like a corpse, or Dracula. In the morning, the corpse similarities were especially striking, as on the drive to the arena Seiji was pale with an expression as if he were on route to his own execution. Warm-ups went well, and all the usual routines of preparing for competition—stretching, dressing, fiddling with skates, hair and makeup—seemed to soothe with their rout familiarity.

It’s now, as they’re waiting for Seiji’s call to the ice, that Shuuichi can see Seiji spiral, collapsing inwards like a black hole. But Shuuichi doesn’t let him go too far; after the final group warm-ups he tugs Seiji onto his lap, locking his arms around his waist.

Seiji glares at him. Shuuichi presses a kiss to his sulky bottom lip, gets a faint sigh as a reward. He pulls Seiji in flush, nuzzles down into his neck, as Seiji’s arms begrudgingly wind around him return.

Shuuichi presses a kiss to Seiji’s neck, who shivers. “You’ve got this,”

“Don’t distract me,” Seiji hisses, but his arms stay locked around Shuuichi’s neck. They both know that if Seiji can nail every component of his free he could still take gold—but even for Seiji it’s a big _if._

“It’s just you and me, okay?” Shuuichi murmurs into his ear. Seiji leans into him.

“Just you and me,” he echoes, softly.

Shuuichi can barely see Seiji come off the ice, blinded as he is by his tears. Seiji’s black costume is liberally dusted with snow from when he hit the ice after completing his routine, his face flushed and stunned. Seiji flies straight into his arms at top speed, nearly knocking Shuuichi straight onto his ass.

“You’re a fucking embarrassment,” Seiji says, thickly. Shuuichi buries his face in his hair, clutching him close.

“You did it,” he says.

“The score—”

“Seiji.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah. I know.”

**Olympic Games** , PyeongChang, South Korea.  
_Two years later._

_“…And there’s Japanese competitor Seiji Matoba with his boyfriend and fellow team Japan skater Shuuichi Natori,”_

_“Yes, those two seem to have found great success as teammates. Matoba took gold at Worlds a second time in a row last year and Natori blew us all away with his debut in pairs ice dance with Rina Nakahara, making it to Worlds in their very first season as a couple,”_

_“There’s a good chance we’ll see them both up on the podium in the coming days,”_

In a quiet corner of the rink, far from the ice, two figures in matching blue jackets lean towards one another, faces tipped together, arms wound around each other’s waist.

“Just you and me, babe,” Shuuichi says.

“And your partner,” Seiji replies sullenly. Shuuichi nuzzles their noses together.

“C’mon, say it back,”

Seiji sighs, softly, but his voice is gentle when he says,

“Just you and me,”


End file.
